32
Tim overtook Luke as the boy opened the door to the holding area. “Stay here, Luke. Wendy,
you’re with me.”
“You don’t really think—”
“I don’t know what I think. Don’t draw your gun, but make sure the strap is off.”
As Tim and Wendy hurried up the short aisle between the four empty cells, they heard a
man’s voice. He sounded pleasant enough.
Good humored, even. “My wife and I were told
there are some interesting old buildings in Beaufort, and we thought we’d take a shortcut, but
our GPS kinda screwed the pooch.”
“I made him stop to ask for directions,” the woman said, and as Tim entered the office, he
saw her looking up at her husband—if that was what the blond man really was—with amused
exasperation. “He didn’t want to. Men always think they know where they’re going, don’t
they?”
“I tell you what, we’re a little busy just now,” Sheriff John said, “and I don’t have time—”
“It’s
her
!” Luke shouted from behind Tim and Wendy, making them both jump. The other
officers looked around. Luke shoved past Wendy hard enough to make her stagger against the
wall. “She’s the one who sprayed me in the face and knocked me out!
You bitch, you killed my
parents!
”
He tried to run at her. Tim caught him by the neck of his shirt and yanked him back. The
blond man and the flower-dress woman looked surprised and puzzled. Completely normal, in
other words. Except Tim thought he’d seen another expression on the woman’s face, just for an
instant: a look of narrow recognition.
“I think there’s
some kind of mistake,” she was saying. She tried on a bewildered smile.
“Who is this boy? Is he crazy?”
Although he was only the town night knocker and would be for the next five months, Tim
reverted to cop mode without thinking, as he had on the night those kids had stuck up the
Zoney’s and shot Absimil Dobira. “I’d like to see your IDs, folks.”
“Really, there’s no need of that, is there?” the woman said. “I don’t
know who that boy
thinks we are, but we’re lost, and when I was a little girl, my mom used to tell me that if you get
lost, ask a policeman.”
Sheriff John stood up. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, that may be true, and if it is, you won’t mind
showing us your drivers’ licenses, will you?”
“Not at all,” the man said. “Just let me get my wallet.” The woman was already reaching into
her purse, looking exasperated.
“Look out!”
Luke shouted.
“They have guns!”
Tag Faraday and George
Burkett looked astounded, Frank Potter and Bill Wicklow
perplexed.
“Whoa a second!” Sheriff John said. “Hands where I can see them!”
Neither of them paused. Michelle Robertson’s hand came out of her purse holding not her
driver’s license but the Sig Sauer Nightmare Micro she had been issued. Denny Williams had
reached behind him for the Glock in his belt rather than his wallet. Both the sheriff and Deputy
Faraday were reaching for their service weapons, but they were slow, slow.
Tim was not. He pulled Wendy’s gun from her holster and pointed it with both hands.
“Drop the weapons, drop them!”
They did not.
Robertson aimed at Luke, and Tim shot her a single time,
driving her
backward against one of the station’s big double doors hard enough to crack the frosted glass.
Williams dropped to one knee and aimed at Tim, who had just time to think, This guy’s a
pro and I’m dead. But the man’s gun jerked upward, as if pulled by an invisible cord, and the
bullet meant for Tim went into the ceiling. Sheriff John Ashworth punted the blond man in
the side of the head, sending him sprawling. Billy Wicklow stomped on his wrist.
“Give it up, motherfucker, just give it—”
That was when Mrs. Sigsby, realizing things had gone wrong, told Louis Grant and Tom
Jones to open up with the big guns. Williams and Robertson weren’t important.
The boy was.
33
The two HK37s filled DuPray’s formerly peaceful twilight with thunder. Grant and Jones
raked the brick front of the sheriff’s station, raising
puffs of pinkish-red dust, blowing the
windows and the glass door panels inward. They were on the sidewalk; the rest of Gold team
was standing spread out behind them in the street. The only exception was Dr. Evans, standing
off to one side, his hands over his ears.
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